Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  Willa’s heart skipped a beat. He was Lord Montford.

  Willa had never seen the baron quite this way, bereft of paint or artifice or frippery. She forgot for a moment about Emma’s predicament while she studied her betrothed in the light from the fires. He had worn the tight-fitting uniform once before. But the night of the musicale, after Willa’s first quick assessment of his attire, her preoccupation with the plot to humiliate his lordship distracted her. Now the impact of his size and masculinity produced a thrumming of her pulse and a strange tingling in her limbs.

  She had to pry her gaze from his physique to look at his face, not a handsome face, but far from homely. It fit his body—broad, strong, rugged, and slightly weathered. A squared-off chin; straight hawkish nose; firm, wide mouth with generous lips; large, wide-set eyes framed with dark lashes; bushy brows; and high, wide forehead.

  Taken all together, Montford looked less like an aristocrat and more like a … a Viking, or what she imagined a Viking would resemble should one ever happen to wash up on a Carolina beach. His arresting features were robust, tough, and overall, manly, without a touch of the effeminate dandy that duty bound her to deal with before.

  Willa could not imagine him, as he looked now, dancing a minuet, much less wearing lace, powder, and face patches in the shape of hearts. He would appear more natural garbed in snug homespun trousers with suspenders over his shoulders and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to display those thick forearms … no … his chest bare while he chopped wood, and sweat slid down his tanned face and off the end of his firm chin. His dark hair pulled behind his neck and tied with a piece of rawhide while the bulging muscles in his chest and thighs flexed …

  Willa pressed her fingertips to her temples, squeezed her eyes shut, and gave herself a silent scolding. Rather than dwelling on Montford’s dubious attributes, she best pay heed to what he was saying and doing. Despite the startling revelation and her reaction when viewing him in his natural state, she still did not entirely trust him. He was riding with Tarleton and had witnessed Mary’s abuse without protest. And why drag Emma into the woods? Until she assured herself he meant no harm, she would be on her guard. Even had he benevolent rather than malicious intentions, she could still admire his face and form—in an abstract way—without desiring to marry him. What would that be like? A flush heated her cheeks. Visions of Marlene and her lover in the gazebo rose unbidden. Willa forced her concentration back to Montford and Emma before her brain could wander off on a tangent again. To be safe, she settled one palm on the butt of a pistol.

  Willa’s legs nigh fell out from beneath her when Emma let out a scream so piercing it made Cherokee twitch his ears and switch his tail. Willa gripped the pistol and slid it upward. But Montford’s actions soon became apparent, and his kind deed brought a lump to her throat. She recalled her father’s and Jwana’s admonitions on her judging the baron too quickly and suffered a stab of guilt and remorse over what she had put him through. Yet she never once considered stepping out from behind the blackberry canes and revealing herself.

  Until Aidan left.

  Emma gasped and clapped a hand to her chest when Willa and Cherokee emerged from the blackberry bushes. “You nearly scared me to death,” Emma said. She burst into tears and flew into Willa’s arms. With their arms cinched around each other and Willa’s fingers stroking Emma’s hair, they sank to the forest floor.

  When Emma raised her head, Willa wiped her friend’s tears with a handkerchief she pulled from her jacket pocket. “What happened?” Willa asked. “What the devil induced Tarleton to burn Gray Oaks?”

  Emma sniffed and cleared her throat. “He insisted that Mama inform him of Francis Marion’s whereabouts. When she refused, he—”

  “I know,” Willa interrupted to prevent Emma from having to relive the terrible events. “I saw all that happened.”

  Emma raised her brows. She pulled back and folded her legs beneath her. “How? And why are you here? How did you come here? You did not ride Cherokee all that distance, did you?”

  Willa laughed softly and shifted her limbs until she sat Indian-style. Reaching out, she rested her hands atop Emma’s. “Calm yourself. Indeed, I rode Cherokee, and I’ve been here for quite some time. I hid in the meadow and watched from behind those old stumps your father had the hands pull out of the fields last spring.” She frowned. “I apologize, Emma. I should have taken some action. I should have attempted to stop them.”

  Emma glanced at the pistols in Willa’s waistband. “Stopped them how? With those? How far would you have gotten with two bullets?”

  “I do not know. But I feel horrid about my inability to help you and your mother.”

  Emma’s eyes were kind. “You cannot blame yourself. Had you intervened, the soldiers would have hurt you, too. Never have I seen men in such a frenzy, especially Ban.” Her lips tightened, producing harsh lines around her mouth, and her hands formed fists under Willa’s light grasp. “He is a bloody animal. I shall never forgive him. I’ll not even acknowledge him should we cross paths again.”

  “I saw,” Willa reminded her.

  Emma’s smile was bitter. “Had I had any notion how vicious and beastly he could be, I would not have danced with him or even spoken to him. And I never shall again. I detest him!”

  As dawn approached, the sky faded to soft blue-gray. A black-capped chickadee landed on a branch overhead and cocked his head, emitting a shrill fee-bee. Emma watched the bird for a silent heartbeat.

  “Will your mother recover?” Willa asked softly.

  Emma shook her head, but her words belied the movement. “Mama is amazingly strong and courageous. She will be fine.” A visible shiver flowed across her shoulders. “I never could have endured that kind of abuse.” Then she looked a question at Willa. “If you were here all along, you must have seen Aidan.”

  Willa nodded but held her peace.

  Emma caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Oh, dear, do you mind if I call him ‘Aidan'?”

  Why not? He gave her, his betrothed, leave only to refer to him as “Montford.” When Willa realized her thinking bordered on jealousy, she slanted her lips into a smile. “Call him whatever strikes your fancy. Why you believe I care, baffles me. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. I have no—”

  “—wish to marry Lord Montford,” Emma chimed in.

  “Or any other man,” they chanted in concert and dissolved into laughter.

  “Was he not wonderful?” Emma said after she caught her breath. “Oh, Willa, you are truly fortunate.” Roses spread across her cheeks. “He rescued me from those wretched men precisely like the cavaliers in the novels I read. And he is ever so much more handsome in his uniform without his court paint and wig.”

  “I give you leave to take him should that be your desire,” Willa said dryly, reserving her own opinion on Aidan’s looks.

  “I know you well,” Emma said. “I suspect you are not as indifferent as you pretend to be. I fancy that beneath all your bluster, you hide a tendre for the oh-so-impressive Lord Montford.”

  A rush of heat flushed Willa’s skin. She waved away Emma’s comment as though batting it from the air. “I have not the least bit of interest in Lord Montford. ‘Twas gentlemanly of him to rid you of those abominable soldiers, but I would expect no less from any gentleman.”

  “Any gentleman?” Emma teased.

  “Exactly!”

  “That assessment makes me wonder when you elevated Lord Montford to gentleman from fop … dandy … popinjay … peacock … walking nightmare …”

  Willa held up a hand. “Very well, I concede your point.”

  Emma granted her a sly smile. “Did I mention dancing bear?”

  Willa glowered.

  Emma lowered her eyes to her skirts pooled on the moss and exposed tree roots. She wiped the smile off her face with the back of her hand, a gesture they had invented in childhood. It brought a pang to Willa’s heart.

  Emma peered over her shoulder to the
edge of the woods. Tree swallows dipped and swirled above the grass. “I should leave to find Mama. She will be frantic with worry. I wonder whether my time is up. Aidan said I should wait thirty minutes. Foolish me, I left my timepiece in my bedchamber.” She smiled wistfully. “And now I have lost not only my timepiece but my bedchamber, as well.”

  As she turned back to Willa, Emma assumed a serious expression. “Before I leave, you must tell me why you are here alone …” She looked around. “You are alone, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “Why have you shown up alone at Gray Oaks, over one hundred miles from your home? I would like to believe ‘tis because you so dreadfully miss my company, but I suspect there is more to the story than that.”

  Willa related Marlene’s latest campaign to ruin her stepdaughter’s life and expressed her concern over her father’s health and the general state of the war.

  “Marion must be stopped!” Willa said as she pounded a fist against her thigh. “Tarleton and his ilk have chased that blasted rebel for months to no avail. And ‘tis no wonder. They busy themselves with burning houses, slaughtering livestock, and ravishing women. With no firsthand knowledge of swamps and their perils, Tarleton chooses to remain outside them. He believes he can catch Marion on the roads and run him down. Or he sets traps, hoping to draw in the rebels. One would think he would realize by now that those approaches will never work.”

  She flung out a hand, then scrubbed it across her face. “I’ve informed Papa of this fact until I am blue in the face. The rebel network is too extensive and the swamps too vast and confusing. Marion will always receive warning in time to escape and disappear into areas where Tarleton refuses to follow. The key is to uncover Marion’s secret camp. No one knows the swamps like Cherokee and me, unless it be Francis Marion himself.”

  She lifted one hand and curled it into a fist. “And I’ve been as muzzy-headed as Tarleton, going about my search in the wrong way, for a few hours a day, piecemeal, with no solid strategy. Well, now I have a strategy. I shall investigate each swamp systematically, inch by inch, until I find the rebel hideout.”

  She dropped the hand to her lap, paused, and eyed Emma. “You know where the camp is, do you not?” she asked with some hesitation.

  Emma cloaked her eyes with lowered lashes and turned her head to one side.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  Emma flicked her eyes back to Willa. Willa saw the anguish her questions produced. “As much as I love you, I mustn’t,” Emma said softly.

  “Forgive me,” Willa sighed with a dismissive gesture. “I have no wish to cause you further pain. I should not have asked you to betray your family’s cause. At times I tend to forget we are on opposite sides.”

  Emma squeezed Willa’s hands. “Only in politics, which neither of us cared a fig for until men started dying. In all other respects, the truly important ones, we are très synchrone, except perhaps in our opinion of Lord Montford. As to your strategy, you forget that Marion is not the only patriot militia leader. Thomas Sumter and Andrew Pickens have also been at the British.”

  The differences between Emma and Willa became clearer. Willa saw Francis Marion as a “rebel” while her friend considered him a “patriot.” That underscored another reason for this war to end. Willa refused to resign herself to the loss of Emma’s friendship as a consequence of a battle started by their fathers.

  A crow cawed in a harsh voice before winging off to raid the harvested cornfields. White-footed mice rustled in the leaf litter and red squirrels scolded in the branches. The forest suddenly came alive with sound and movement as the animals went about their daily tasks. The creatures’ return bore in the realization that the dragoons were now far away. Cherokee even lowered his head and grazed on the sparse grass surviving under the trees’ canopy. Her time with Emma was coming to an end.

  “I know,” Willa said, bringing her mind back to the subject and replying to Emma’s comment about the other guerrilla leaders. “But Sumter operates in the center of the state and Pickens in the west. Along the coast, Marion is the one to stop. His influence is greater. I even heard he is a better leader of men, which causes the disenchanted to flock to him. And he has more success at this barbaric style of warfare the rebels seem to have invented. Once he is captured or killed, the other militia leaders will quickly fall.”

  Emma sat back, eyeing Willa with bemusement on her face. “Not saying you have even the ghost of a chance of being successful, but were you, how would that help your situation with your father, Marlene, and Aidan?”

  Willa arched her brows. “Is it not obvious?”

  Emma opened her hands wide. “Not from over here.”

  Willa blew out a breath. “With Marion’s leadership no longer a flame to their cause, the rebels will lose heart and sue for peace. Papa will have no battles to fight, and his life will not be in danger. I cannot stand by and watch him risk his life again.” She shook a finger in Emma’s face. “Not only do I love him, but I promise you, should Papa die, Marlene will be rutting on his grave inside a sennight, and within a fortnight, she will have my bags packed and sitting on the porch.”

  Emma tried to interrupt, but Willa forestalled her with a raised hand. “When the prospect he could die in war does not hang over his head, Papa will have no valid concerns about my future. His pride in my deed, that I achieved what even his best officers could not, and his relief over the certainty of his continued good health, will compel him to listen to my objections about this marriage. Ergo, no wedding.” She smiled.

  “My,” Emma murmured. “You put a great deal of thought into this.”

  “I have. It has pressed on my mind since Papa’s escape from Camden. Then Marlene’s words confirmed my decision.”

  “I truly appreciate that, but I must say I believe you allow yourself to be blinded by faulty logic. Your entire thesis depends on the actions of others, something you cannot control.” Emma ticked off the points on her fingers. “Once you remove Marion, a Herculean task in itself, then the patriots must become disheartened and sue for peace. Then your father must praise you for deliberately courting danger instead of locking you in your bedchamber until the wedding, when he hands over the key to your husband. And the end of the war is a far cry from granting your father immunity from death. He, as well as any of us, could die at any time in any place or any way. And finally, history has taught us that men will always find another battle to fight, if not here, then somewhere else.”

  “It truly cannot be as faulty as all that,” Willa replied with a pout.

  Emma gave her a questioning look. “Are you certain you do not flee from Aidan in the aftermath of the ‘Killer and Sweetie’ prank?”

  “Quite certain. And ‘twas not a prank but a genuine accident. Certainly we planned to … well, introduce them to him. But after Quinn expressed his reservations, we had every intention of putting them away. Then they … sort of … got away from us. Montford was most unreasonable about the entire incident. He had no cause to threaten me with mayhem.”

  Emma laughed until she had to hug her sides.

  Both girls glanced up at Richard’s voice sifting through the branches as he searched for Emma. Deep sorrow bled into Emma’s eyes.

  “I suppose ‘tis safe for me to leave now,” Emma said. She got to her feet and brushed the bits of leaves and seedpods from her skirt. “Mother will need me. Rebecca is so young, and Richard, well, he is a man. We both know a man’s reaction to adversity is to bluster and seek revenge rather than offer comfort and sympathy.” She looked at Willa. “Will you come with me and give up this mad quest?”

  Willa averted her gaze. “I cannot.”

  Emma held out her arms. Willa stood and embraced her friend. The girls remained still for a long moment, their arms firmly about each other, realizing this quite possibly could be a final parting.

  Emma broke the contact and started toward the meadow. When she reached the point where the meadow met the trees, she stopped and tu
rned. “Go with God, my Willa. I love you dearly. Come back to me.” Then she lifted her skirt and ran out into the pale sunlight.

  Willa darted to the tree line. “Where shall I find you?” she shouted.

  Emma turned her head and cupped her hands to her mouth. “At the DeVries’s Plantation.”

  “Then I shall look for you there,” Willa said softly with tears burning her eyes.

  Chapter 14

  Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton had no more success in finding Francis Marion after he terrorized the Richardsons than before. As he rode down the Black River Road, he remarked to Ford, “I vow that dammed old fox has a flea in his ear that whispers to him my very thoughts.”

  Ford bit back a smile. He does.

  Cornwallis recalled Tarleton in the second week of November and ordered him to pursue another partisan leader, Thomas Sumter. And now, if Tarleton could not have Marion, he would have Sumter. A battle ensued at Blackstock’s Plantation where Sumter took a musket ball. His condition became critical by the following morning, making him incapable of speaking or standing and in no condition to command. His men stretched a bull hide between two horses and carried him out to safety. Then his leaderless militia broke camp and disbanded.

  In describing the results to Bellingham, Tarleton wrote: “We have lost a great plague in Sumter. I wish your friend Marion was as quiet.”

  While Tarleton chased Sumter, Marion seized the opportunity to pursue what he most desired—running the British out of his beloved town of Georgetown. Before riding inland with Tarleton, Ford passed on information that only fifty invalid British regulars manned the Georgetown post. With Marion’s most reliable spy off with Tarleton’s troops, Marion received no intelligence regarding the arrival of two hundred reinforcements. After two failed assaults and two more days of fierce fighting, lack of ammunition forced Marion to retreat, and he bivouacked on the Black Mingo. While there, he fretted over when and if the Continental army would relieve them as he’d been promised so many times of late. His band of loyal men barely managed to hold eastern Carolina. Without food, medicine, ammunition, and arms, they would not hold it for long. Discouraged by the conditions under which he and his men were forced to fight, Marion wrote once again to his commander to plead for ammunition, medical care, and more troops.